Tightrope Cutting
by ibuberu
Summary: With one gentle hand and turn of head. — TsunaKyoko, 27K.


Let us have some hetero love in KHR!

**Characters** – Tsunayoshi, Kyoko, Gokudera, Ryohei, Lambo, Yamamoto, Hibari, Chrome  
**Pairings** – Tsunayoshi, Kyoko (27K)  
**Genres** – General, Romance  
**Note(s)** – Felt compelled to write this, as well as to try out this writing style.  
**Disclaimer** – I own nothing apart from my plotbunnies.

* * *

**Tightrope Cutting.**

There are nights when she waits, the heat from the metal spoon warming – nearly scalding – her fingertips in dire, prickling anticipation. She glances at the mug of coffee under the rising steam, sighs, and turns away. The sober rain pouring over the Vongola stronghold goes _tap tap tap_, against the soundproof walls and heavy, metallic artillery decorating the estate. She mentally jots a note that this isn't the first time he is running late as she takes a useless sip of Italian caffeine. She does not need it to stay awake, to keep her fevered eyes from closing, for she is plagued by her instinctive worries as she laces the fingers of her bare, trembling hands.

When he finally arrives, she pretends he is not late, does not want to cause extra problems, and gives the Gokudera that is standing like a shadow a friendly wave. The right hand man bows stiffly, and then excuses himself for a cigarette. She is left alone with him, and listens keenly as he explains his tardiness and searches for her understanding, a warm hand on her shoulder as they part from their embrace. She rests her forehead on his chest, feels the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his broad chest, and gives it to him without a whit of hesitation, without unsaid promises and unwelcome blame. She is already satisfied that he is safe, and wonders why it can't be like this all the time.

* * *

There are nights when he appears promptly, and she finds herself wishing he hadn't. Because, on occasion, there is a minor bruise swelling on his numb cheek. She offers him an absent smile and asks him if he is well, asks him if there are any problems. He blinks those wonderful, chestnut eyes, and flashes her a powerful, calming smile. And she believes – for long enough – that everything is alright. At junctures in their relationship where they aren't blessed with luck, he comes with a torn Armani suit, a hand hanging loosely from a splint, in a soft sling, in a hard cast, wrapped in bandages crimson with something she attempts to ignore. When it has been a bad week, she hears before she sees. Perhaps it is a creaking of crutches, or the shortness of breath, maybe a harsh cough. But still, she smiles that encouraging – plastic – grin and takes one of his callous hands into her bosom. When he can spare the time, there is the clanking of two fine glasses, bubbling champagne, waltzing behind symphonies of melody, and secret, shy kisses cloaked by honey whispers. And she is very nearly reminded why she suffers, why she constantly worries over him, and why it is _(almost)_ worth it.

* * *

There are nights when he doesn't come, and she welcomes the companionship of her brother with a bandage applied on the bridge of his nose. A guardian normally greets her, delivering the countless soft, gentle, _relatively_ sincere, apologies of the Vongola boss. Even while hearing that rough, blasé voice of her brother, she closes her eyes, and nearly feels her boyfriend's mouth brush against her earlobe. _Nearly_. She learns that she has to get more practice with this, even though it is becoming tiresome.

When it is Yamamoto, he laughs, tells her an amusing joke despite the hints of blood seeping from a fresh scar trailing down the side of his arm. His sheathed sword always catches her eye, and she childishly wonders if he has killed anyone that day.

Lambo drops by to accompany her whenever he is not training and I-pin is bustling at her day job, and she makes it a habit to look up from the mess of documents on the desk to give him a warm rub on the arm. The young Lightning grins as he returns the affection, and she feels close to becoming whole again.

This is juxtaposed to the behaviour of Hibari, who stalks into the room bearing an agitated aura, like he is being burdened, and mumbles half-heartedly, in a way she learns to decipher over time. He exits the room coldly whenever she offers a cup of warm chamomile tea, mumbling about how he strongly prefers Japanese green tea, leaving her to cope with the loneliness.

Sweet Chrome will incline her head, her doleful eyes never once moving from the vacuumed carpet. Conversation between them falters easily, especially when the Mist replies with no words, but a simple nod. But late at night, the fingers that are not firmly gripping onto the body of her trident shift to clasp her foreign hand resting on the table, a hand that is spent after hours upon hours of writing and typing. She looks into that violet eye, and silently understands. As Chrome pushes her leather chair back and opens the wooden door, hand hanging from the brass handle, she waits with a patience trained by Mukuro.

She will give Chrome a curt nod, look out of the window, pray silently, murmur words for his safety, then flick the glow of the lamp off, and exit his study with Chrome – or another guardian, or sometimes, someone is she unfamiliar with, armed with a ready gun. She will enter her own personal room, down the corridor from Haru, who is hardly even here anymore. She will think about how today, yet again, it is not Gokudera who has come to tell her that the boss is unavailable, out of the country, or admitted into the hospital. It is not the man who is able to – dedicated to – spend every waking hour with him, protect him, talk to him, laugh and escape with him. She never tells anyone – not even Haru – how jealous she is of Gokudera Hayato.

She may rest her head on the feather-light pillow of the bed, but she never falls into the security of sleep until she hears heavy footsteps dragging across the hallway outside, pausing in front of her door for a long second – at times, coming in and giving her a cold, chaste kiss on the cheek – before moving off to do things that Vongola bosses are supposed to do. A kiss, she thinks, is _supposed_ to signify love, passion and dedication. Yet – please, somebody help her – she experiences wordless sorrow in place.

When she is alone, and it has grown into a habit now; she will put down her ballpoint pen, look back and sink, willingly, into nostalgia. She wishes her hair can be light again, where it is easier to wash and handle. But she can't help it when she overhears that he finds Haru's long hair intriguing, and her mindset changes. How ironic, that Haru has snipped off her tresses in this future.

She remembers how carefree she was as a fifteen-year old, and how he had protected her. How he _still _protects her, albeit with heavier firepower, a sharper chin and deeper voice. She realises that she has always been _weak_, and sulks silently as she slips out of her pointless daydreams and returns back to work.

* * *

And there comes a night where Tsuna lowers himself onto one sturdy, firm knee, and shows her something he has been keeping in his pocket for countless times long rolled by – it shines like no other diamond she's ever dreamed of, and that, is mildly surprising. But, only just so much. She begins to dream fondly of a loving husband who holds her hand, a quaint house, two giggling children – perhaps twins. Then, she realises, sharply, that it is what it is, only a _dream_. She's always suspected – known – that his wallet would be able to afford whatever he thought to call upon. _Anything_, _anything_, she hums bitterly in her mind.

But_ her_.

On baited breath, her hand moves to cup her mouth as something odd and jagged – poisonous – pierces her dulling heart. Kyoko is almost sure that this very scene has replayed, repeated – been hammered – in her mind one too many times as a young, naïve teenager; but she has never imagined it to be this heart-moving, this tear-jerking, this stinging, this searing, this paining. Unsure feelings tug at her chest, but she begins to make – what she hopes is – the soundest decision of her brief but trying, twenty-five year old life. She thinks about their eight years together, thinks about a future that is fraught with impossibility, thinks about an empty mansion, thinks about weeping children that will never be born. She thinks about a woman with sun-streaked locks framing her face, drawing out a fake, deceiving smile as she spends days, months, years waiting, growing out her hair, straining her wailing heart as she trails and stumbles, confused and weary, after one man with the brightest flame eyes.

_Almost_, she breathes, _almost_, does she think that this golden band is the answer. _Almost_, she sings, _almost_, ebbing the sensation overcoming her heart.

With one gentle hand and a turn of head, something is cut.

* * *

**end.**


End file.
